


365 days of who gives a fuck

by thefudge



Category: 365 days - Fandom, 365 dni, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Kidnapping, Parody, Romantic Comedy, aka a parody of 365 days, inspired by 365 days on netflix, postmodern love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:21:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: A mob boss with a chip on his shoulder is haunted by so many demons, but especially by the image of you, which he saw when he was close to dying. Now that he's finally caught you, he hopes that you'll follow the script. But what happens when you don't? (parody of 365 days)
Relationships: Mob Boss/Reader, Mob Boss/Reader who has the attitude and sarcasm of Billie on Avenue 5, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character(s)/You, and the amused spitefulness of Natasha Lyonne
Comments: 38
Kudos: 159





	365 days of who gives a fuck

**Author's Note:**

> yall. I HAD SO MUCH FUN. both with this deliciously terribad movie and the writing of this parody.  
> even though it is a parody, the story does slip into romance and becomes a kind of hybrid, so that's why i also tagged it as an original work. this might be the silliest thing i've ever written AND I LOVE IT SOOOO  
> hope you do too! <3
> 
> (also, i don't think you have to watch the movie in order to read this? but u should cuz it's bonkers lol)

***

Part of you wishes you’d gotten kidnapped in better clothes. It _had_ to be the one T-Shirt that makes your stomach bulge and the frayed shorts that leave red marks on your thighs. It’s not that you want to dress to impress, but the humiliation of sitting here, staring at oil paintings of Tuscany sunsets and kitschy cave-deco appliances is compounded by your own bedraggled state.

Grime on grime.

You put your head in your hands. It’s been a couple of really _excellent_ hours.

The seven-foot dark-haired stranger is hard on the eyes. He’s perfunctorily handsome, but you only feel this great _weariness_. His intense posture and that deep divide between his eyebrows make him look constipated. He takes himself _so_ seriously. Some might find him compelling, but you can tell he’s the most boring fucking dude on the planet.

You reach for the glass of water on the coffee table. You drink all of it and use the last sip to gargle and spit in a potted plant to your right.

Your sulky kidnapper looks at you in dismay.

“Uhh, you wanted a drink of that or…?” you trail off, wiping your mouth.

He turns his back to you and leans his arms dramatically against the roaring fireplace.

You take this time to look over the human-size painting of you he’s installed in the foyer. The most offending thing about it is the forehead. It takes up too much space. You’re pretty sure your own forehead is smaller.

“My forehead is smaller,” you say, because it’s starting to bug you. “The whole thing is kind of inaccurate. Your artist air-brushed the shit out of my face. Or I guess just _brushed_?”

The Mafioso-wanna-be looks up. There’s a small, pained twitch under his eye, like buyer’s remorse.

You snort. “Wait, was _that_ what you were hoping to get when you kidnapped me?”

He pushes off the mantelpiece and starts strutting back and forth over the thick carpet. You’re pretty sure it used to be a lion. The carpet, not him.

You almost feel bad for him. “I’m guessing you used that photo of me at my cousin’s wedding? Yeah, that was pretty fake. Cindy made all the bridesmaids use these really hot filters. I was basically Megan Fox.”

The gangster runs a hand through his product-laced hair. “I did not use a photo.”

Now you’re a little curious. He did _not_ stalk your social media obsessively?

“I saw you…as I was dying,” he confesses, voice drunk with dramatics. “It was like a dream before death.”

“Uhh…”

You look around for any white powder on hard surfaces.

“Maybe you should take it easy,” you say.

“It’s true! I saw your face as I was bleeding on the floor! It was the only thing that kept me tethered to the world of the living,” he hawks viciously.

You lean back on the couch. “ _Tethered_? Slow down. You saw _my_ face in particular?”

He nods, eyes burning with distress. You think that people’s eyes in general should not burn.

You work it out in your head. He’s definitely batshit crazy, but he’s also kind of pitiful.

“Hmm. I guess that explains _my_ dream,” you say, peeling off some dead skin from your toe.

Your captor suddenly looks alert. “What?”

“Yeah, I also had a dream about you,” you say airily. “It’s true, you were bleeding. I was looking down at you."

He watches you with rapt attention.

“And then I sort of –” and you mimic the action with your foot on the carpet, “stepped on you. I think that’s when you croaked.”

His nostrils flare. He’s at your side in two strides. He yanks you by the arm, pulls you up on your feet.

“Do not provoke me.”

He smells of cypress and abrasive cologne, the kind that could probably clean even the greasiest pan.

“You kidnapped _me_ ,” you state. “So technically, you provoked _me_.”

He looks down at you in disbelief. “I’ve killed for less.”

“That probably makes you a bad mobster in the grand scheme of things.”

He shakes you a little as he brings you closer. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Nothing interesting, I bet,” you mutter.

He grabs your mouth and chin in one hand and squeezes hard. “Little girl, you don’t –”

“Oh my god, shhhut up,” you snort with muffled laughter.

He lets go of you, slightly dazed. You rub at your jaw.

“If you want me to buy that you’re a really _dangerous_ guy, don’t call me “little girl”, _eww_. What’s next? Baby lamb?”

“I _will_ make you obey me –”

“Pff, okay then, grab a silk scarf and choke me with it while you cry about your mother. We can do it in front of the fireplace.” 

He combs through your sentences, trying to find meaning. He frowns, aghast. “My mother is dead.”

“Exactly. Come on. It’ll be cathartic. Beats having to star in this Cinemax special.” 

Mopey Mob Boss – you’ve decided you’re going to call him Mopey Mob Boss for the alliterative power that it has – is completely disarmed by your invitation. He’s trying to understand how your mind works, but it’s pretty much gibberish.

Which yeah, it usually is.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he says.

You sigh, throwing your hands in the air. “Then you’re welcome to jerk off in my hands, pay my student loans, and drop me back at the motel. Promise I won’t tell anyone.”

He flinches. Every time you say something that acknowledges the sordid underbelly of this entire situation he’s forced to see you as a not very delicate, not very female person and it spooks him.

“You are…awful and disgraceful. You ought to learn to behave like the woman I love,” he says mournfully, staring at your portrait.

Hoo boy.

“Fuck me, Dorian Gray,” you mutter. 

He scowls. “Clearly, you are not yourself right now. Tomorrow you will behave better.”

He has to believe that. He has to hope for that.

You purse your lips. “I doubt it, unless you give me a lobotomy, but I wouldn’t recommend that course of action. The Kennedys did that to Rosemary and they have been _cursed_ for decades.”

He shakes his head. Why, he wonders, why are you like _this_?

Why can’t you be his sexy victim? Why can’t you talk back in this really hot baby doll way? Why are there sweat-stains on your T-Shirt? Why are you so gross?

But he’s come this far. He swallows and says, “I will keep you here until you become _that_ painting. I know the real you is underneath all this vulgarity. I will offer you 365 days…if by the end of the year you are not in love with me, I will release you.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “ _Really_?”

“Yes. You will want for nothing. I won’t touch you. I will wait for you to come to me. And you will, eventually.”

If you weren’t such a disappointment, he would’ve said those last words with that kind of dark, possessive conviction that is traditional of most alpha male heroes.

But alas, he looks kind of pale, like he’s not very sure about any of this, like _he’s_ the one who’ll need to be talked into touching you, but hey, he’s loaded, you hate your job, and you’re pretty sure you passed a table of assorted cheeses on your way here. And you want in on that cheese.

Besides, you’re half-convinced that he’ll release you _way_ sooner than that and find the right woman to sexily menace.

You plop down on the couch again. “All right then. 365 days it is. Now, get me a Mai-Tai.”

Mopey Mob Boss is just…not having a good day. He tangles his fingers in his crucifix and curses his fate. He was hoping you’d snarl at him and try to fight him and he’d get to manhandle you and press you up against the wall and breathe harshly down the lining of your throat and get to feel your sexy pulse, because even your pulse _should_ be sexy.

Instead, you look like a home invader.

“ _Babe_ ,” you say sweetly, “still waiting on that Mai-Tai. Oh, and can you grab a plate of cheeses on your way out?”

The next day, he becomes a little hopeful when you start asking for your phone and laptop. You’ve showered and your hair looks less donut-shop-greasy. You’re wearing a summer dress that he’d left for you in the closet and while it’s a little too small for you and your bra straps are showing, you look presentable. Not his idea of hot, but…maybe if he squints. Perhaps he can get back to your regular-scheduled kidnapping.

As you come closer, he notices you haven’t bothered to shave and his stomach sinks a little.

“You are not to have your phone or your laptop for the foreseeable future,” he recites. “You must entrust yourself to me and leave the life you led behind –”

“I got that,” you interrupt impatiently. “I meant, _a_ phone and _a_ laptop. My old Mac was barely kicking anyway. Just get me brand new ones. I’m sure your guys can put trackers on them to see if I’m contacting the Interpol or whatever.”

Mopey Mob Boss pinches the bridge of his nose. No…no, it’s all wrong…you’re supposed to languorously demand your freedom as you slowly trickle into his arms. You ought to be gelato…and you’re salty eggplant salad.

And then you have the audacity to playfully punch him in the stomach. “Day one, Mr. Mafia.”

He’s terribly disgruntled.

He tries to give you the smolder on the stairways. You’re both going down to the cars because he wants to take you shopping. He stops you in your tracks and steps into your personal space and tips your chin up and tries to summon that sizzling chemistry between two romantic leads.

“Yes, _and_?” you ask, after a few moments, tapping your foot.

I mean, looking into those dopy deer-brown eyes is not exactly edifying.

It’s just boring.

He tries harder, deepening his gaze, pouring all his overripe angst in that one look.

“Listen, you’re not the little mermaid. You can use words.”

He shakes his head, though his lips struggle against a smile.

“I don’t need words with you.”

You roll your eyes so hard you almost fall down the stairs. Maybe you could push _him_ down the stairs, but you’re not that vengeful. You grab his waist and start tickling him instead.

His expression becomes comical. Since he’s never been adept at laughing (unless it’s a dark chuckle or a sexy smirk), Mopey Mob Boss looks like he’s drowning. He shrieks like a little girl.

He dissolves into helpless, grotesque laughter and you look pleased.

“You’re – very – horrible,” he gasps.

“Day two,” you coo as you walk down the stairs.

You sit in the changing rooms and play mahjong on your new phone.

Mopey Mob Boss finally barges in on you, red as a lobster.

“What are you _doing_? I’ve been waiting for _hours_ for you to come out and model the gowns for me.”

You look up at him. “Yeah, none of them fit. Nothing in this store will fit me.”

“But – but why didn’t you say so earlier?”

You smile sweetly. “I guess I wanted this to be a learning moment for you.”

He balls his fists. To be deprived of a fashion montage…it’s too much…he doesn’t know _how_ he’ll bear it…You’re supposed to tease him with lingerie and max out his credit card. Is that too much to ask for?!

You kind of feel sorry for him, once again.

“I have a better idea,” you say. “Why don’t we get _you_ something to wear?”

He looks down at his black ensemble. “Why?”

“Well, you look like an extra that got fired from a Robert Rodriguez movie set.”

He clenches his jaw. “I don’t understand your references.”

“Sure you do, you’re just really sensitive about your image. It’s okay, boo. Let’s get you some color.”

He doesn’t like it, doesn’t like it at all. He’s not the one who is supposed to be modeling. But he supposes it’s better than nothing.

You extend your hand. “Here, I’ll hold those guns for you.”

And for the first time, Mopey Mob Boss smiles a halfway genuine smile. “Nice try.”

Okay, he kind of enjoys trying on clothes. Especially some of those nifty seersucker suits that make him look like a Riviera conman. You clap at him every time he comes out and point out what works and doesn’t.

“Twirl for me, twirl for me.”

He folds his arms. “I don’t need to do that –”

“I need a full view! Do you want to look like a clown in front of your murder associates?”

He heaves a weary sigh. He’s almost getting used to your pointless verbiage.

You walk out of the stores, comparing pictures you took of him on your phone. He likes the salmon suit, but he doesn’t think “creamy butter” as a color works on him.

“Yeah, it makes you look like bacon,” you agree and before he has time to take offense, you point out a cute bistro where you can grab lunch. He was kind of hoping you’d go back to the compound and eat red caviar scooped out of an iced pineapple.

You squint at him. “You know, you’re lucky you’re a professional criminal, otherwise you’d get bullied to death.”

Sitting across from him in the bistro is weird. Like almost normal. But he doesn’t seem to know where to place his elbows. It’s almost endearing.

“So, I overheard you threatening some guy for trafficking kids,” you say as you roll the linguini around your fork.

His face shutters. “He knows he should have _never_ done that. I have sealed him in the underground dungeon, where he will rot for all eternity –”

“I mean, you could just shoot him point blank.”

He looks up, startled. “He’s one of my brothers.”

“Ehh. You have others. Say, do you traffic adults?”

He’s not given time to recover from your casual callousness. He stumbles. “No. I – we have some contacts in that line of work, but we have never dealt in it.”

“Why do you keep those contacts?”

He wavers. “Well…it’s complicated.”

Your face lights up. “Oh, I know! In case the authorities ever get one on you, you can sell the contacts in exchange for a reprieve.”

He smiles, happy to be understood. “Bingo.”

“You could still give them the tip anonymously right now.”

He’s uncomfortable once again.

“Those contacts would know it was us. They’d come after us…after you too. They’re very dangerous people,” he says with histrionic emphasis.

You exhale, pointing the fork at him. “This job’s no fun. Also, can you at least be honest and admit that my welfare is not of paramount importance to you? For a long-ass time the most contact you had with me was acrylic.”

He shakes his head, chuckles a little. “Okay, I guess you’re right. I guess – maybe I do not care that much.”

You smile. It’s the first time you’ve actually liked him.

“Good.”

You knock your glasses together. 

You watch him lift weights to frigid techno-beats and yawn. Another _riveting_ display of masculinity. Even Patrick Bateman probably had more pizzazz. Scratch that, Bateman _definitely_ had more pizzazz. At least he listened to Phil Collins.

You march to the sound system and pause the depressing Third Reich music.

He puts down the weights. “What are you doing? I need to focus.”

You hook your phone up. “Since you’re forcing me to be here, we’re working out to _Lizzo_.”

He doesn’t welcome the idea at first. In fact, he hates it.

But by the fourth play of “Juice” he’s abandoned the weights and trying to follow your moves.

By the eighth play, you’re both doing a strange Conga dance, hands on hips, moving your arms in and out, like you’re about to serve drinks in a cabaret. You have no fucking clue how you got here, but you laugh like two inebriated cows who stumbled off the road.

You’re sitting by the pool, one foot dangling in the water as you look up synonyms on Thesaurus.com.

Mopey Mob Boss is swimming laps methodically, coming up for air and joining your spot from time to time.

“What do you keep typing?” he asks, after a while, leaning his arms over the edge.

Your foot knocks into his shoulder.

“My ‘I was kidnapped by a hottie’ diary.”

He blinks. “What?”

“If Roxane Gay could do it, so can I. Listen to this, “ _Dear Diary, today he tempted me with pool-soaked abs. I had to bite into my own fist to remember my Protestant morals_ ”.”

“Ha ha,” he hums, sprinkling water in your face.

You duck. “ _Oh, when will he release me from the agony of his five o’clock shadow and chiseled hips? How can I resist the earth-shattering power of his libido, oh Heavenly Lord?”_

He laughs, leaning his head on his arms, looking up at you with a kind of tender miscomprehension.

“Seriously now,” he says after a while. “What are you writing?”

“A novel.”

“A novel?”

“Well, isn’t everyone _always_ writing a novel? Might as well do Nanowrimo all year round.”

“Nano-what?”

“You know, every year regular people write 50k words in the month of November.” 

“They _do_?”

“I mean, they _want_ to, then _pretend_ to, then write five thousand words and get really depressed about their lack of motivation and call their ex and cry over the phone,” you say. “I mean, so the legend goes. I’ve never done that, _obviously_.”

He shakes his head. “Obviously. Can I read it?”

“My magnum opus? No way.”

“Why not? Am I in it?” he asks importantly.

“Aren’t we modest?” you drawl. “Though, I have to admit, your story is pretty damn funny. I mean, you practically catfished yourself.”

He rises from the pool, water running down his legs. “I did not catfish myself.”

“Nu-uh! You convinced yourself you were destined to be with Monica Bellucci and instead you got me. Hah!”

He looks down at you as he towels himself. “Yes. I suppose I got you.”

There’s little humor in his voice.

He notices your glass is empty. By the time you look up again, he’s no longer there but he’s left you a fresh Mai Tai.

For some reason, he gets pissy right in the middle of your _Gilmore Girls_ rewatch. He storms into your room in his pajama pants.

On the screen, Paris Geller is telling Rory she had sex for the first time.

Mopey Mob Boss watches the screen, baffled.

“Yeah, it’s a heavy episode,” you explain. “I mean the show kind of slut-shames Paris for having sex with her boyfriend before college. Ooh, sit down, there’s a scene of her meltdown coming up. It’s televised and _amazing_.”

But he struts in front of the TV, folding his arms and trying to make like a statue.

You crane your neck, annoyed. “Could you, like, move, babe?”

He grumbles under his breath, walks past you, blocking your view again, and then sits down next to you.

“You know, I’m trying to do _something_ here –” he starts, but you shush him.

You can sense him glowering, getting more and more impatient as you stay glued to the screen.

You watch Paris’ meltdown-rant together (“I had sex, but I’m not going to Harvard!”) and some of the tension dissipates.

“This girl…is very passionate,” your captor acknowledges. “I like her.”

“She’s the _coolest_ ,” you say fiercely.

“I’m sorry she did not get into Harvard.”

“Yeah, fuck Harvard. I wish she’d gone to Europe. But she gets into Yale, instead. The good news is she meets up with Rory again. The bad news is she ends up sleeping with a really old professor. And I have nothing against age difference or power imbalance if you’re about _that_ life, but I never saw Paris as someone who’d submit to a sixty-year-old man, you know? Even if Michael York is sort of a rickety dreamboat –”

“Am I – a rickety dreamboat?” he asks, in a stilted voice.

You laugh, unable to help yourself. “Well, you’re not _that_ old. Maybe just a regular dreamboat.”

He brightens. “Really? You think so?”

You pass him the bowl of popcorn you made yourself. “Sure. Some lucky girl will love to put her uhhh…sails on you? I don’t know where to go with the metaphor.”

His mouth drops. He rolls away from you. “Some lucky girl.”

“Okay, fine, _girls_ ,” you amend. “I didn’t mean to imply you wouldn’t get several.”

He’s doing that pacing thing again, running his hand through his hair, looking haunted by his demons.

“I don’t want several. I just want you.”

You throw a popcorn at him. “Hey, didn’t we agree you don’t need to say that corny stuff anymore?”

He nods. “It’s not that.”

“Is it about the painting again?”

He wavers. Maybe it is. Maybe he was hoping everything would make sense again. Around this point, he was expecting to have you chained to a rack and torture you with seemingly risqué but very safe missionary-styled sexual fantasies. But he doesn’t feel like doing that – at least, not like _that_ – because suddenly that seems _boring_ and lifeless –

“What do you want?” he suddenly asks, turning to her.

“What do I want?”

“Yes. I just – do you want anything from me, as a person?”

You sit up. “As a person.”

“Yes. Do you – do you find me attractive? But not _just_ attractive – I don’t know –” he waves his arms spasmodically.

It’s kind of funny watching the traditionally hot guy having an existential crisis. But you don’t want to hurt him, you realize.

“You mean do I find you interesting _and_ attractive?”

He stops. He rubs the back of his head. “You don’t, do you?”

You hug the pillow to your chest, trying to find an adequate answer. You want to tell him not to bother with you, because underneath your barbed remarks you’re kind of a fucking loser.

He heaves a sigh. “Great. I probably have a tumor.”

You frown. “What?”

“Seeing you…right before dying. Must have been the symptoms of brain tumor.”

“I don’t want you to have a brain tumor.”

“What is the alternative?” and his voice goes down an octave and his eyes turn lusterless and that makes you squirm a little.

“Put a shirt on,” you say, looking down at your nails.

He blushes angrily. “I am that terrible to look at?”

“No. I just think it’s hotter if we’re both fully dressed and repressed,” you drawl, leaning back on your elbows, a few strands of hair caught in your mouth. “Made it rhyme.”

He swallows, eyes darkening gradually, naturally, unstaged and divorced from power.

“Don’t move,” he says, walking out of the room quickly.

You smile.

“Can’t – you – go – a bit – faster?” he grits, holding his arms helplessly to the side, as you experimentally slide down his cock.

“Shh, we’re watching _Gilmore Girls_ ,” you say, looking over his shoulder as a new episode starts.

He groans into your hair as PJs brush against PJs in a quasi-comical, erotic rhythm. 

He doesn’t know how to catalog the experience, and not knowing makes it sweeter.

You nibble on his ear distractedly as Lorelai’s Inn burns down.

It’s all terribly postmodern.

You’re in the back of the limo with him, going to see a new restaurant he’s opening on the Amalfi Coast and you’ve put on a blue dress with little white flowers on it and you’ve even brushed your hair and you’re reading an article about a woman who tried to have sex with a dolphin during a weird experiment where she filled her whole apartment with water because she was trying to teach it English? Anyway, you think your situation is way saner. 

He toys with the hem of your dress.

“You look pretty.”

“I’m not giving you a blowjob in this car,” you mutter, still reading.

He coughs, as if he’d inhaled too much air.

“I didn’t ask –”

“Remember my initial offer? Jerking off into my hands and paying my loans? Still stands.”

He grabs you by the chin and plants a kiss on your lips. He’d like to say something like “dirty girl”, but he knows you only appreciate those epithets under certain circumstances. Or like, never. You’re so high maintenance.

“And what will you do if I do that?” he asks instead.

“If you came in my hands? I guess I’d give you a facial.”

The laugh rumbles deep in his chest. He kisses you harder.

You wonder what day it is. And maybe you’ve got some kind of lame psychic connection or you said that out loud because he says, “day-who-gives a fuck” against your mouth.

You finally burn the painting together in the backyard.

You’ve never watched paint curl and melt. It’s sort of beautiful.

“I guess we’ll never know who she was,” you muse, tongue-in-cheek.

“Guess not,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

“Now I shall have an artist come draw your true likeness,” he adds mysteriously.

You look over your shoulder in alarm.

But Mopey Mob Boss isn’t so “mopey” anymore. His face allows for a variety of expression. He smiles that knowing smile of lovers who’ve outsmarted each other.

You smile back, elbowing him lightly in the ribs.

As you both watch the fire die down you say, “Next on the agenda: weed out the criminal network and put an end to human trafficking, at least in this part of the country. Oh, and in between, get an indie publishing house off the ground so I can publish my novel without looking dumb.”

He runs his hands down her arms. “It sounds like this has been your plan all along.”

You smile. “Let’s just say, I came to you in a dream.”


End file.
